Band of Gold
by Madcap Junior
Summary: Mystrade fic. Greg and Mycroft are divorced and have a less than amicable relationship, in fact they never talk. Will the two of them ever reconcile, or is any kind of friendship impossible at this point? Will a bored Sherlock finally come in useful now that he has no John to distract him?
1. Chapter 1

**First Mystrade fic! Hopefully it goes okay... :L  
Unfortunately Sherlock is entirely the property of Moffat, Gatiss and obviously the BBC. **

Sherlock was stood just outside the double doors that opened out to the extorior of Goldney Hall Orangery, taking the chance to have a cigarette without John noticing...not that John noticed anything much that he did these days, especially not on his wedding day of all days. He glanced back inside, grimacing at the strobe lights and pounding music, people supposedly having a good time-though it was clear that most were presenting a facade, the women in particular were very poorly concealing their jealousy of the bride. His eyes eventually drifted to the happy couple, still wrapped in each other's embrace. As he watched them he felt that familiar tightening in his chest again, as he did so very often these days. Sherlock sighed, turning away and pulling his phone out of his pocket, dialling the number of the only person he knew that felt the same way he did about such things as weddings, his older brother.

Mycroft was clearly not overly busy that day, not only had he already spokent to his brother on the phone that day, but he picked up on the second ring, though of course he insisted he was regardless, "Yes, Sherlock? I am rather busy, you know," The familiar bored drawl greeted him at the other end of the phone.

"We both know that's not true, you wouldn't take my call if that were the case," Sherlock pointed out, instantly disarming Mycroft's pretence, "Why have you abandoned me here at this particularly nauseating display of so-called happiness? I know you were invited."

"Do you really need to ask, brother?" Mycroft tutted, "The heartache's making you lazy. I, unlike you, am not required to be there, and as you know I share your dislike of weddings and have decided to give it a wide berth."

"I am _not_ experiencing any kind of heartache," Sherlock hissed, "Though you are-it's a shame you're not here to stop the good Detective Inspector from trying to get off with one of the bridesmaids," he taunted his brother, voice taking on a childish tone now.

Mycroft sighed heavily, "Sherlock, must we go over this _again_?" He asked wearily, "DI Lestrade and I ended our relationship many years ago, his actions are no longer my concern."

Sherlock snorted in disbelief, "You keep telling yourself that." There was silence for a moment as he glanced back at the wedding reception again, "I can't stand this any longer, time for me to make my exit I think," he decided, "Goodbye, Mycroft." With that he hung up the phone, striding away from the Orangery.

**xXx**

Myroft had long since finished his exercise for the day, he was now sat in his sitting room, settled in the leather chair he'd been in for hours. He sighed, rubbing his temples before standing up, walking over to the sideboard and pouring himself another scotch from the decanter there, downing it quickly.

It didn't surprise him that Gregory Lestrade had found someone to focus his attentions on that evening, it was no secret that many people at New Scotland Yard lusted after the older detective, and he was sure that extended to people elsewhere as well. Mycroft's upper lip curled in distaste as he thought about the nickname he'd been given, "The Silver Fox". The Gregory he had known was a brunette, not that Mycroft was about to deny that he looked somewhat distinguished these days.

Mycroft left the sitting room, heading into his luxurious study. He sat down in his leather desk chair, rubbing his tired eyes as he began to look over some files, his mind drifting back to Greg. The two had always been an unlikely couple, they'd met at university, Greg studying Criminology at UCL, Mycroft studing Political Science at LSE. It had been a completely chance meeting in the library, the cheeky brunette refusing to leave him along until he agreed to go for coffee. Surprisingly they'd hit it off instantly, sitting there talking for a good four hours. After that they'd become inseperable, you never saw one without the other. Their friends expected that this intense young love would fizzle out after university, but against all expectations they actually moved in together, living happily for two years before entering into a civil partnership.

Their relationship had been what could only be described as idyllic, Greg landing himself a job as a recruit at New Scotland Yard. Mycroft unsurprisingly had gone straight into politics, quickly making his way up the hierarchy and landing himself the "minor government position" he'd occupied ever since. Greg had also climbed the ranks with surprising speed, promotion after promotion earning him the title of Detective Inspector not long after beginning his career.

That was when things started to go wrong, two people with busy careers could never have worked, it was practically impossible. They no longer shared dinner together as their working hours never allowed them to do so. Both of them working late nights meant that intimacy wasn't an option-they couldn't even find the time for a conversation, and any time they were able to go to bed they were too exhausted to do anything but sleep. Greg saw the effect their demanding schedules was having on their marriage, he made the effort to try and cut down his hours, trying to make more time to spend with his husband. Mycroft, however, wasn't quite so willing to put his work on hold, and, after putting his job first one too many times, Greg left, leaving Mycroft heartbroken.

Mycroft swallowed hard, the familiar pain of the failure of his marriage hitting him hard as it always did whenever he allowed himself to think about it. He glanced at the wedding band, still worn on his right hand, before reaching for a sheet of paper from his official government pad, unscrewing the lid of his fountain pen as he began to write a letter to his ex. The combination of tiredness and a little too much scotch made him much more honest, his elegantly looping handwriting revealing the thoughts and feelings he worked so hard to keep hidden.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's Chapter 2, which is actually Mycroft's letter, felt it needed it's own chapter :)**  
**Don't own anything etc.**

_Dear Gregory,_

_ Sherlock called me from the wedding, he seemed to enjoy letting me know that you were rather enjoying yourself. Don't worry, I reminded him that I no longer reserve the right to follow your actions. He won't admit it, but my little brother is less than happy with the good doctor's marriage-if you wouldn't mind keeping him especially busy I would be most indebted to you. _

_ I heard about your divorce, I must say I apologise for my apparent involvement in the detorioration of your second marriage-though not because you lost your wife, she was no good for you. I am, however, sorry that you will no longer have access to your stepchildren, I know you cared greatly for them. Though I will not shy away from saying that you are far better off without someone with such vicious homophobia-anyone that discards you based on a past relationship that just so happened to be with another man is not worth your time._

_ It will probably come as some surprise to you that not only am I sending you a letter, but also that I have kept up with your life. Though it's hardly surprising considering that it was not my decision to end our marriage...given the choice I'd still be calling myself your husband now. Don't tell Sherlock that, though, it'd make him far too smug-I'm still insisting that he can't read me anywhere near as well as I can read him. _

_ I'll keep this brief, I'm afraid I may have already said too much-tiredness and scotch really don't mix-and we both know that I was never one for so-called sentiment. In short, I miss you, Gregory._

_Yours,_

_Mycroft S. Holmes_


End file.
